


After 3 A.M.

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood and Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Not Beta Read, Psychological Horror, Timeline Shenanigans, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 17:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16497095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: “W-what are you?” Hermione breathed, voice wavering when a low laugh bubbled from the mouth at her neck. Her ears rung with the sound.“The man of your dreams.”





	After 3 A.M.

**Author's Note:**

> A little late to the Halloween party, but unfortunately for me, I had a paper due the day _of_ and class.
> 
> I am trying my hand at something a little different with how I convey horror. I'd love to know if it worked :)
> 
> Enjoy!

**Present.**

_Drip. Drip._

Cold splattered over her face, rivulets of something viscous running down her cheeks. She didn’t move, frozen in place as she watched a shadowed basin fill to the top.

“—mione?”

She caught the tail-end of her name, and then, a hand snaked over her shoulder. It smeared wetness along her bare skin. She didn’t move, even when the droplets tickled her flesh.

None of this was real, after all. What point was there in fleeing in terror, in swatting the hand away and running for the hills when nothing in this little bubble she’d dreamed up could hurt her?

“Is there something on your mind?” The words were spoken directly to her ear, and still, she did not move. When his grip tightened, warning and danger thick in the silence between them, still, she did nothing.

There was nothing for her to say. No need for her to speak because— _of course—_ the voice she was hearing wasn’t real. All there was, and would ever be, was the red dripping into that basin.

“Ah.”

His grip loosened, the pad of his thumb now trailing over the same place he’d gripped her. It was soft, almost tender in a way. So very unlike how those fingers had dug into her skin.

_This isn’t right._

A voice like her own whispered in the back of her head.

It stirred something in the back of her gut, an itch her fingers twitched to scratch. She didn’t though, didn’t claw at her skin to satisfy the need, to scratch the itch.

Why should she? When it was so much better to simply float in this haze? When the nothing  _wanted_ her and only her? This shroud, this sense of ennui that _needed_ her, would never abandon her.  

It was thicker than denial. It was a too wide hand wound around her throat, leaving her breathless.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Something flashed in the darkness. It blinked, twinkling in the shadows.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, fascinated when the lights grew more and more in size. It nearly blinded her, but still, she was riveted. She couldn’t have stopped staring even if she’d wanted to.

_This is wrong._

A voice, _that_ voice, murmured in her head, and—

Hermione stilled,  something bitter and poisonous wrenching in her gut.

_Those aren’t lights._

They weren’t _dots_ of artificial color, but _eyes_. Eyes, ringed with honey and at half-mast, peering at her. She knew them. She’d seen them at least once before. This wasn’t the first time.

Reality hit her like a punch to the chest.

They were the same eyes that peered back at her when she looked in the mirror.  The ones she’d see in photographs tucked away in her drawers, displayed in her bedroom.

_How?_

She lifted her hand to reach for them, to touch the shape of those eyes as she often did when looking at herself.

Her fingers stopped centimeters from them. Frozen. Helpless. She was rooted in place, the shroud curled over her senses, renewed its efforts to restrain her, winding so tightly around her thoughts that she hardly felt the hand curling over her shoulder and—

_Drip. Drip._

Hermione jolted, a breath wheezing past her parted lips. There was something in her throat, lodged in her esophagus that had crawled inside and refused to leave.  Choking, Hermione tried to reach for her throat, to soothe the heat, to calm the sudden wave of panic that bloomed deep in her belly.

The panic only grew when she couldn’t move.

There was something there, she knew now. Something in her mouth, in her _neck_ , that kept squirming and writhing for a way out. A burn spread from the hollow of her throat, graduating into an inferno when she opened her mouth, but it _refused_ to come out.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Her eyes shifted to the basin reflected in the glass, the brilliant red almost at the top. At the edge of her vision, the eyes in the mirror closed, weighed by something Hermione could not put into words, but could certainly feel.

The eyes opened, and then her mouth tasted ash.

 _Fear_ . Cold realization cut through her veins. _It was terror._

_She was scared._

“She’s beautiful, is she not?”

Hermione gasped, and she scrambled,  hands finally free of the power keeping them caught, mid-air, in front of the mirror.  She clutched at her neck, caught between burying her fingers into her mouth and fish out the object lodged in her esophagus or swallowing it up. Something wet and thick smeared against her fingers, a sticky river running from her neck down, and down, and _down_ like a faucet _—_

Everything hit her all at once.

The stench of iron flooded her senses, of tackiness against her palms, of salt along her tongue. _Oh, god._ Hermione gagged, her hands coming away red. The girl in the glass gagged too, her eyes going wide with distress.

_No. No. No._

Her heart was beating wildly in her ears, too loud for her to make out the _drip, drip, drip_ of the basin being filled. A scream was bubbling up her throat, threatening to spill like the basin full of bloo—

_God._

It was in her nose, in her mouth, on her _tongue._ There was blood everywhere. It oozed from her pores, trickled down her scalp until it ran like waterfalls down the slope of her neck.

A tremor overtook her, and Hermione could not stop it. Even if she’d wanted to, even if she _tried_ , the world was twisting on its axis.

“Shhh.”

A hand smoothed over her lower back, and Hermione stilled, her eyes briefly tearing away from the horrified eyes gazing back at her to where the hand burned into her flesh.

A whimper rumbled in her throat. There was no one there. It was only her reflection in the glass, only her bathed in blood and gore from god knows where. _Like Carrie_ , Hermione thought manically, _after she had murdered everyone in the gym in rage_.

Bile rose up her throat, the need to throw up so strong that she nearly did when what felt like lips pressed against her ear.

The touch cut her to the bone.

“It’ll be alright.”

Hermione wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. None of this was okay. She was fucking _bathed_ in blood. How was she supposed to be _calm?_ How _had_ she been calm this entire time? Was _she_ insane?

“Are you fucking mad?” She croaked, not batting an eye at her vulgar language. She wasn’t one to curse. It was uncouth and impolite. It wasn’t something that prim and proper Hermione ever did, but—

Considering the circumstances, she could forgive herself for the misstep. The potential that she’d been an accessory to murder was a more pressing concern than her _language._

“I prefer creative.”

Hermione swallowed, a nervous laugh wheezing past her lips. His grip tightened over her waist, and Hermione’s laugh died in her throat.

_Please, god._

Then, something wet slithered up her neck, hot and moist. _It was almost like a_ —

The hairs on her arms stood on end.

— _like a_ bloody _mouth_.

Hermione wanted nothing more than to shrink into herself, to rear back and away from the figure pressed along her side. But no matter how loud her mind shouted for her feet to move, for her arms to swat the monster away like the parasite it was, her arms stayed latched to her neck.

Something was holding her down. Something that had no place in a world of _science_ was keeping her prisoner. Her _mind_ trapped in a bloody skin suit.

_Squelch._

Hermione’s insides churned at the sound, unsure if it was coming from directly behind her or somewhere off in the shadows. She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to _look_ . There was no telling just who— _or what_ , her mind helpfully supplied—it could be.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The sound was driving her mad. It was ceaseless, lingering on the foreground of her mind in spite of the very real hand slithering up her waist. Of that real _mouth_ now kissing along her throat, as if it couldn’t get enough of her taste.

Hermione wanted to be sick.

“W-what are you?” Hermione breathed, voice wavering when a low laugh bubbled from the mouth at her neck. Her ears rung with the sound.

“The man of your dreams.”

* * *

**Past.**

The music pulsed in the space, in time with the flashing lights in the nightclub.

Hermione didn’t notice, lost to the bliss only three margaritas could wrangle out of her. It had been a stressful week at the lab, and though she was never the sort to spend her evenings at a nightclub, she knew she’d end up murdering her supervisor if she didn’t take this time for herself.

There was only so much a book and an evening with her cat could provide.

“Hermione! Quit staring at the lights. You’re out here to have fun.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned to Ginny, dropping her empty glass at the bar.

Admittedly, it hadn’t been entirely Hermione’s idea to go to this club. It hadn’t even been a passing thought when she’d called Ginny over the phone to vent her frustrations about the greasy-haired, beak-nosed bastard that ran the most prestigious medical lab in the country.

Her plans that evening had been simple: one, invite Ginny over and sulk over the harrowing reality that she had three more years with that arsehole and two, eat a tub of ice cream as she complained. Ginny, of course, had had other ideas. The rest from that point forward was history.

Ginny winked at her before snatching her by her wrist and dragging her nearer to the center of the club. Hermione wrinkled her nose, putting up a bit of a struggle when she caught sight of two women climbing a lone male like a tree in the middle of the dance floor.

Hermione was buzzed, but not nearly buzzed enough for that sort of shite.

“Come on!” Ginny pouted, but Hermione had dug her heels into the floor. Nothing short of a natural disaster was moving her.  “Just one dance. It’s not going to kill you.”

Hermione lifted one brow, unconvinced. Sure, she’d suffer no physical harm from flinging herself into the crowd of gyrating bodies, but her pride, well. That was a whole other matter. She might have been the most brilliant student to pass through the walls of the Hogwarts Medical School, but that certainly did not mean that she wasn’t a horrid dancer.

“No.”

Then, almost as if summoned by divine providence, a drunken idiot cut between them. Hermione stumbled, catching herself just before she lost complete control of her limbs. Ginny was cussing up a storm, but Hermione did not stick around long enough to make out just what she was saying.

Hermione made a beeline to the bar, taking this has her cue to make her escape while Ginny was otherwise preoccupied.

Hermione might have wanted a night of fun—with little to no time to dwell on her supervisor—but that did not mean she would allow Ginny to push her too hard.

It didn’t take Hermione long to find an empty chair by the bar, tucked away at the outermost corner of the club. It was a safe distance from the dancefloor, thankfully. It would take Ginny some time to find her. More than long enough, in her opinion, to enjoy what remained of the night and then take her exit before her redheaded friend chewed her out on the way home.

“For you.”

Hermione startled, swaying in her seat. She turned to the bartender, brows knitting together when the bartender—a mammoth of a man—slid a drink directly in front of her on the table.

There was a tiny skewer with pieces of jalapeno in the liquid. A spicy margarita. The exact same drink she’d been having most of the evening.

However, that was not what gave her pause. Half of the rim was layered in white, the rest of it bare. It was precisely how she ordered her margarita. It was a bit odd. Even when she ordered the drinks herself, rarely did the bartenders even get that simple instruction right.

The bartender smiled at her, his lip twitching with amusement at the look on her face—because what _else_ could he be laughing at—and pointed somewhere down the long counter. “The gentlemen entirely dressed in black, looking like he’d come right off the runway, darling.”

Then, with a wink that made her cheeks burn with something _other_ than intoxication, she looked in the direction he’d directed her.

 _Damn_.

After boring holes into each of the men sitting down that end, growing more frustrated with the subjective and vague description provided by the bartender, Hermione swore something profane beneath her breath.

The bartender had not been kidding.

Her would-be benefactor was singlehandedly the most handsome bloke she’d ever seen in her life. Even sitting as far as she was, it was not difficult to notice the hard lines of his forearms.

Then there was that _face_ . Hard jaw and sharp cheekbones, Hermione wanted to pinch herself to make certain that she wasn’t dreaming. A man that beautiful could not exist—let alone be interested in _her_.

Hermione couldn’t help but stare, ignoring the whisper in the back of her head telling her that it was _rude_ and _creepy_ to be goggling at some stranger. Still, she didn’t look away.

Grabbing her free drink, Hermione leaned closer, eyes squinting to make out more of his pretty face. It was a good and bad thing that there was no one beside her to complain. She doubted she would have stopped had someone had told her to close her mouth and clean off the drool from her mouth.

It was a good thing she’d lost Ginny somewhere at the club. Ginny would never let her live it down.

_Holy smokes, Hermione. Want some help picking up your jaw from off the flo—_

Hermione lost her train of thought, mouth falling open with a shocked “o” when the stranger’s eyes were suddenly on hers.

The corner of his mouth lifted at the corner, and Hermione had a split second to ponder on that small motion before he was standing from his seat.

 _Oh._ Hermione cursed under her breath. _Now she’s done it._

She hadn’t meant to stare. The last thing she needed was to initiate conversation, to _encourage_ whatever it was that he thought he might accomplish by buying her a drink.

Hermione grasped her margarita, not about to abandon it after it had been prepared to her tastes— _and for free, no less_.

“And here I was hoping I had left a good impression on you.”

Hermione froze when a voice she did not recognize spoke up behind her. However, it was certainly no mystery that the owner of that voice— _a masculine drawl, no less_ —was the handsome stranger.

 _Damn_.

She’d been too slow to make her escape.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders to prepare for what she imagined would be the most awkward conversation of the evening, and turned to face the stranger.

Somehow, he managed to be more beautiful up close. How that was possible, Hermione couldn’t begin to fathom.

_And so bloody tall._

Heat flooded her cheeks, but she prayed, that it wasn’t obvious she was embarrassed. If she showed weakness now, she’d be saddled with the bloke for most of the evening. The fact that he had approached her after receiving a mere _glance_ from her was evidence enough.

“Well, it will certainly take more than a spicy margarita to do that.” _Or a pretty face_ , her mind finished.

Dark eyes flashed at her, a slow smile creeping up his lips that made something foreign— _primal_ , her mind helpfully supplied—clench in her gut. Immediately, she batted the emotion away. This was neither the time nor the place for that sort of nonsense.

_Especially when you’d only just met the bloke, Hermione, get a grip._

“Oh? Then perhaps, I should try harder. You’re certainly someone worth impressing.”

Her jaw nearly dropped at the compliment, the low rumble of his throat making the hairs on her arms stand on end.

This was getting ridiculous.

“And you are? Have we met before, by any chance? You sound awfully certain of my character.”

Fingers clenching tightly around her drink, Hermione’s breath caught when he stepped closer, looming above her. It should have unsettled her—made her take a step back—but something in his eyes stopped her.

 _They were dark and bottomless. Like rich obsidian,_ Hermione thought. They sucked her in.

Everything about him was alluring. From the arch of his dark brows to the loose curl pressed against his forehead. But it was nothing to the heat in his gaze, to the mesmerizing intensity that promised more than an easy evening at the bar.

_Shit._

“How rude of me. My name is Tom Riddle. A pleasure to meet you, Miss…?” He said, eyes burning into her own.

 _Strange_ , Hermione thought, curious.

Never once, even when playing carelessly with the lit matches as a child, had she been this tempted to stick her hand in a flame.

 

* * *

**Present.**

This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a nightmare. She had to be bloody _sleeping_.

And yet—

Everything felt so real. From the pools of blood rolling down her skin to the hand against her bare— _god, she was bloody naked—_ flesh.

Her lips trembled. Terror consuming her completely when that hand continued to drag over her skin, trace unknowable shapes along her spine. Its slickness grated her, made her want to press the palms of her hands to her ears to silence it.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

“You taste exquisite.”

Heat spread from her left shoulder blade to her neck, stopping where her carotid artery lay pulsing widely beneath her skin.

“And your _smell_ —” He purred against her neck, his hot breath making her skin crawl. “Even dampened by the scents of those human vermin, it calls to me.”

A whimper crawled up her throat when his nose pressed against the hollow of her neck and sniffed the flesh.

_No. No. No—_

“I wonder why that is.”

 

* * *

 

**Past.**

_Tom._

It was too basic a name for the creature that had somehow appeared out of thin air. That didn’t stop her from mouthing it silently, however, imagining how it would sound on her lip—

Clearing her throat, Hermione did her best to hold onto her composure. She would not be swayed. Hermione Jean Granger did not _do_ nightstands.

Not after her disastrous little rendezvous with Mclaggen. To think that the sodding bastard had fallen _asleep_ on her after taking his fill without getting her off was more than enough to dampen the tension that had settled around her and T- _Riddle_.

She refused to think of him by his name. Even that small concession felt like defeat.

“Pleasure,” Hermione said, swirling her drink before taking a sip from the salted end of the glass. He wasn’t getting her name. Not now and certainly not ever, if she could help it.

“Is it truly? You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Riddle tilted his head to one side, a curious note in his eyes that made Hermione’s stomach clench. _God_ , Hermione thought. _She really had to cut this interaction right then and there._

What came out of her mouth was the opposite of what she should have said.

“Is it your business whether or not I enjoy myself?” Hermione asked, her interest piquing when Riddle’s eyes flashed with something sharp. All thought of cutting the interaction quickly fled.

_Huh._

It’d been so quick she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. But she’d seen something. She was certain of it.

“I suppose not. But—” Riddle paused, pressing so close that Hermione had to crane her neck to maintain a clear view of his face. “—is it truly wrong to enjoy oneself at least once? Living only for the moment just to embrace just how alive you truly are? I can give you that.”

When he said it like that, his voice like molten chocolate on his tongue, it didn’t sound like a mistake.

Her reservations wavered, her mouth falling open to make another excuse—to tell him _no—_

His fingers found hers over the stem of her glass, and all of her protests died a brutal death on her tongue. His thumb grazed over her knuckles, soft and gentle. _Tantalizing_ , her mind whispered, when his eyes went half-mast, his tongue gliding over his bottom lip.

“Well—”

Hermione’s grip tightened on her drink, knuckles white when Riddle took another step and they were chest to chest—her breasts brushing against him in  a way that made her blood sing.

 _Oh,_ toss  _it. She can deal with the regret in the morning._

Her arm snaked around his waist at the same time his hand knitted into her hair, her drink shattering on the floor. The rich smell of tequila flooded her nostrils, but Hermione didn’t blink when it spilled over her feet, soaking the thin layer of her tights.

“I’ll make an exception just this once.”

Hermione’s hand splayed along his back, voice low, relishing in the way his muscles rippled against her palm.

Riddle grinned, all teeth. His eyes flickered from her eyes to scrutinize her lips and then devour the skin exposed just above her neckline, and back. It was like a lit match, insides so hot that she thought she might combust into flames.

 _Oh hell_ , she hoped she didn’t live to regret this.

“Hermione.”

His focus wavered, his gaze snapping back to her eyes. There was a question lurking in their depths.

A sly smile spread on her face, her hands dragging him close enough to breathe in the clean scent of his aftershave and something else. Something darker and intense that made her mouth water.

_Like dark chocolate and chai, almost._

It was obscene just how badly she wanted to kiss him, to find out if he tasted just as good as he smelled.

“My name is _Hermione_ —”

Hermione’s mouth ghosted against his, tasting his breath, his soul, his _desire_ on her tongue. His eyes never left her face as she spoke, following her mouth with the same interest a starving predator watched its prey.

_Like he was famished._

Neither of them said anything for a moment _—or was it an eternity? Hermione couldn’t be sure—_ the tension between them building in their shared silence. Nothing short of a natural disaster could pull them away from this moment. It certainly couldn’t yank her, stop her from feeling him through his shirt.

Hermione was lost to it— _to him_ —and she found, that for once, she didn’t bloody _care._ She’d feed the temptation just this once.

 

* * *

**Present.**

The hands turned her away from the mirror, from the constant _drip, drip, drip_ of the basin. Her back hitting the mirror, Hermione’s pained cry never made it past her throat when a hand clamped over her lips.

“If you scream, I will kill everyone that comes through.”

The horrified face of her elderly neighbor flashed behind her eyelids, and something terrible— _bitter_ —rose from the back of her throat. A scream or gorge, Hermione could not tell.

Hermione could only nod her ascent, eyes fixated on how features she’d once found so alluring on this man’s face, had become distorted. Monstrous. His eyes were cruel, black and hardened stones that revealed no mercy.

He wasn’t lying, she was certain. He’d kill anyone that’d come looking for her—wanting to investigate the screams—and murder them in cold blood. It was why he had seduced her in the first place. It’d be difficult to get away with murder if his target was screaming bloody murder.

Still, that didn’t explain where the blood had come from. It was _everywhere._

“As long as you behave, no one will have to die.”

His eyes were a bright red, as though he’d trapped a live flame in his gaze and harnessed its power. It was inhuman—otherworldly. It explained _nothing_ , only raised more dizzying questions.

“Do you understand?”

 _No_ , she wanted to say. _She didn’t understand anything._

With great reluctance, Hermione nodded anyway. She’d behave and she’d pray for some of this to make sense. This was her fault, her mess, and _her_ responsibility, in the end. It was she that had decided to take home a complete stranger after a short conversation.

She’d never be able to forgive herself if someone got hurt because of her. This was between her and Riddle.

“Good girl.”

Her skin crawled at the endearment, but she otherwise refused to respond. She didn’t trust herself to open her mouth—afraid she’d vomit all over herself if she did.

His hand released her mouth.

“I knew you would understand, Hermione.”

She didn’t.

Hermione flinched when he pushed closer, his chest now against hers and a hand lying just inches to the left of her head.

_God._

What had she done to deserve _him?_

 

* * *

**Past.**

They were out of the nightclub before Hermione even knew it, her skin feverish beneath his smoldering glances and his wandering hands.

Even when they stumbled through the dark, fumbling for her keys to the car, they were touching. Constantly. Hermione could not seem to help herself, one hand on the wheel of her car and the other sliding over his thigh—enjoying how his hard length pulsed in her palm whenever she squeezed.

It was nothing short of a miracle that they hadn’t crashed within the fifteen minutes they’d been sailing through streets. It was also _fantastic_ that Ginny had come in her own car; otherwise, Hermione would be hard pressed to explain _how_ she totaled their ride back.

Hermione would have to remember to text her in the morning, and—

She never finished her thought, for Riddle took that moment to slip his hand up her thigh, bunching the material of her skirt as he homed in her on clothed cunt. A moan rumbled up her throat, eyes sliding from the road for one moment to throw him a warning look, caught between annoyance and desire.

“Careful, we don’t want to start the night at the emergency room.”

Her comment was met with a low, raspy laugh. It made her insides curl warmly at the sound.

If Riddle disagreed, he didn’t make it known. His hand stilled but otherwise did not extricate itself from her leg.

“My apologies, I’ll exercise some restraint—”

He squeezed her innermost thigh, hard enough to bruise— _to mark_.

_Oh._

Hermione gripped her steering wheel for dear life, her other hand falling away from his cock, to control the heat pooling between her legs _—_ to stop herself from crushing him in her hand.

 _That had felt_ , Hermione tried to think, thoughts scrambled, _intense._

She hoped they didn’t crash. She might die if she didn’t get him home and in her bed before the night was out.

“—the night is still young.”

 

* * *

**Present.**

Nails digging into her palms, Hermione pressed closer into the mirror when his mouth touched her throat, tongue tasting the salt and the iron smeared on her flesh.

She could kick him, she knew. In this precise moment, she could hurt him and make a run for it. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d have to defend herself— _is not the first time she’d have to bash a man’s head open, but—_

Her legs remained rooted in place. A whisper of unease, a sense of knowing kept her back. Something told her things would go far more differently this time than things had in the past.

 _He’s not human_ , the voice said. _He’s a monster,_ another more insistent one, whispered.

Closing her eyes, Hermione waited for him to do something. To act out on this violence, on this bloodlust that couldn’t be quenched no matter how much blood stained his hands.

It made her impatient, made her _reckless_.

“If you’re going to kill me. Just do it.” Her voice was trembling, but Hermione hardly noticed it, riveted by the basin a short distance behind him. It was overflowing now, trickling over the opening and onto the floor. “Put us both out of our miseries.”

“Now, _why_ would I do that?” He said, mouthing the words into her neck.

Shuddering, Hermione focused on the basin, on the single thing that didn’t scream danger, that didn’t plan to harm her.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

“If I kill you—gorge myself in your taste—I lose the pleasure of tasting you. Forever. The memory of your life’s blood trickling down my throat, the musky tang of your cunt on my tongue, confined only to the memory of pleasures long past.”

His mouth closed around her throat, over her carotid artery. His tongue laving at it all the while Hermione warred with her need to fight and flee, or both. She needed to get out, but—

_How does one stop a creature that never should have existed? How did one fight what could snap her neck without breaking a sweat?_

It was easy to demand that it kill her, but it was entirely another to _allow_ it to happen. To spur it into action. She didn’t _want_ to die.

He pulled back, sharp points now grazing the skin. Hermione braced herself when his teeth kissed her neck.

“No, Hermione, I don’t think I will.”

Then, it was as if knives had been stabbed into her neck. Hermione lost her breath, unable to scream from the agony. It spread through her nerve endings, her muscles spasming and writhing.

It took her too long to realize, past the swell of tears in her eyes and her screaming thoughts, that those knives were his _teeth._

_“Death shall never touch you.”_

A voice _—_ _his voice—_ hissed inside her mind.

“ _Never._ ”

 

* * *

**Past.**

Hermione curled her fingers into a “come-hither” motion, a predatory smile on her lips when he stopped right outside her front door.

“Come on in, I promise I won’t bite—”

The words barely left her mouth before he was on her, zooming past her doorway and into her flat to slot himself against her, hand sliding down her dress and into her skirt to cup her cunt through her knickers.

“I won’t make any promises. You look good enough to eat,” he groaned, his glittering with humor and desire.

And then his lips were on hers, teeth catching on her bottom lip and sucking the rosy flesh into his mouth. Hermione moaned, hands catching onto the buttons of his shirt and nearly tearing them off his shoulders to touch skin.

She couldn’t get enough of his taste, of his skin, of the way his eyes burned into her own with want and _hunger._

God, he looked like he wanted to take one bite out of her and savor it forever.

Pleasure sung in her veins at the thought, at being wanted and desired so intensely that he couldn’t keep his hands away. He moaned into the kiss, protesting when she pulled away from his mouth to scratch down his chest and tug on the button of his trousers.

He was entirely too dressed.

“ _Gods_ , Tom—” She hissed when the sound of tearing cloth echoed in the empty living room, and a hot hand touched her bare cunt, his thumb pushing against her clit with surprising ease. Somehow, in the haze of it, he’d torn her dress down the middle.

Hermione had half a mind to say something, to protest, but when his finger rubbed her raw, all words became lost. She could only throw her head back and moan, consumed by his smell, by his _touch_.

Riddle captured her lips again, violently this time. Desperate. He kissed her like a thirsting man needed water, teeth catching on her lips, tongue sliding into her mouth and curling against hers. Hermione bit him, lightly, and she choked when he thrust two fingers in retaliation and _curled._

_Fuck._

Hermione’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, hand finally unzipping his trousers to fish out his cock. She needed him to fuck her right now. If he didn’t, right this instant, she was certain she might implode.

She palmed him, thumb teasing the head, hoping she conveyed just how badly she wanted him. How much she needed him inside her, _right_ _now._

He moaned into the kiss, and then his teeth were on her tongue. His teeth bit at it, harder than her nips and more violent than any rough kiss she’d shared with others in the past.

Moisture pooled between her lips, both pain and pleasure heightening her need for him. It was utterly _intoxicating_ . The taste of iron and  _pain_. She wanted it. All of it.

His fingers thrust inside her mercilessly, thumb rubbing her clit exactly how she liked it, how she touched herself when she was alone. She stroked him too, pulled him out of his trousers as much as she could with his jeans still caught around his thighs. It was dizzying just how this was easily the best night of her life and he hadn’t even fucked her yet.

 _Yes_.

“My room—” Hermione moaned when she pulled away from the kiss, both mouth and tongue stinging, bitter with her blood when he’d bitten her hard enough to cut.

“ _—Now_.”

Riddle didn’t need to be told twice. He lifted her from off the ground, Hermione’s gaze drawn to the way his muscles rippled in the dim lighting from the street light outside, before carrying her to her bedroom.

 

* * *

**Present.**

She bit and clawed at him, fighting both tooth and nail to force him off— _to stop the pain._

Riddle’s jaw clenched, and Hermione’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, consumed by utter agony. Dark spots danced across her gaze, her head smashing into the mirror behind her repeatedly to both lodge him off and distract her from the incisors tearing into her throat.

_Please. No, no—_

Her legs kicked at him, but he stepped closer, leg slotting between her quivering thighs to dash all attempts at forcing him off. She should have kicked him between the legs when she had the chance, should have done something rather than stand there, in complete terror.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, a whimper stumbling from her lips when her vision began to spin from the blood loss.

It was useless. All of it. Hermione knew it, and the monster certainly knew it too. Still, she didn’t stop fighting him.

She didn’t scream, teeth chewing out of her bottom lip to hold the sounds. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing him she was in pain. And she didn’t scream. Never did even when he lapped at her neck, the suckling sound of his mouth so loud in her ears it drowned out the _drip, drip,_ of the basin.

Then, her world twisted for the second time.

She was falling back, the mirror shattering behind her head when his fingers wove into her messy curls and slammed it back, once. Hermione saw stars.

_No._

Glass fell along her bare arms, cutting her neck, eviscerating her shoulder blades, but none of it compared to the razorblades in her neck, to the fire that coursed through her veins each time he gorged himself on her blood.

Her legs collapsed beneath her, and it was only through his strength alone that she remained standing, that she didn’t fall into the ground in a heap of limbs.

_Stop. Stop. St—_

Riddle tore away from her neck with a loud gasp, the guttural sound enough to make her teeth vibrate from the intensity.

She moaned when he bent beneath her, quickly lifting her in his arms. Her flesh burning wherever he touched her, the urge to flee and fight so strong it made her want to vomit. But she couldn’t move. Her limbs were like dead weights, moving to and fro with each careful step he took into the unknown.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

 

* * *

**Past.**

Hermione’s back arched on her bed, mouth wide in a silent scream when he parted her legs and licked up her cunt. Teeth clenching, Hermione’s hand fell on his head to push him closer, to make him suck at her clit.

He didn’t, tongue avoiding just where she wanted him most, where she _needed_ him to curl his finger against her skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hissed, both loving and hating how his fingers parted her to his gaze before thrusting his fingers deep inside her, neglecting her throbbing clit. “Stop messing around and eat me out already.”

At Riddle’s warning growl, Hermione smirked, parting her legs as wide as they could go.

Then, his tongue was sliding against her clit, _finally_ , a third finger pushing inside with the rest. A scream tore from her throat, and Hermione pressed her hands into her mouth to stifle the sound before her neighbors called the police.

The last thing she wanted was for the police to come knocking on her door, asking questions about blood-curdling screams coming from her flat.

Riddle, however, was making it difficult to her keep her composure. He was merciless, fingers curling and pressing against her g-spot. It was as though he knew just where to touch, as if he’d been fucking her for _years_ rather than never before.

Rolling her hips, Hermione's fingers yanked his head into her cunt by his hair, relishing in the short gasp and low moans rumbling from his throat. It was animalistic. Something she imagined only a wild animal in the midst of consuming its prey sounded like.

Hermione couldn’t get enough of it, not when her stomach was burning with ecstasy, her climax so close she could taste it in the back of her mouth.

_God._

Her toes curled when his teeth nipped her clit, the pain startling a choked sound from her lips. No one had ever done that before. The men she’d slept with in the past were gentle, careful with how they marked her.

Not Riddle, however. He had no such compunctions, digging his teeth against the sensitive skin where thigh met cunt, and she _relished it_.

 _More_.

Her heart swelled in her chest, her insides slick with her arousal. She wanted him to hurt her more, to fuck her into the mattress and make her mind stop. Just this once. Nothing but her and the rough pad of his fingers, but the blunt head of his cock splitting her open—

At the feeling of his teeth against her clit, Hermione came for the first time that evening. Her heart was in her throat, her mouth broken open with pleasure.

“ _Tom_.”

At the sound of his name, Riddle paused, eyes zeroing in on hers. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks at the way he sucked at her, still, drinking her up through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

 _Fuck_.

Hermione yanked him out from between her legs, unable to stand it any longer. It was too much. It was too little.

Riddle’s mouth was wet with her juices, his eyes so intent on hers that she almost lost herself when his fingers curled once more inside her, never stopping their rhythm.

If he kept that up, she was certain she would come a second time.

_More._

“Give me more.”

Her hand palmed her breast, thumb and forefinger tweaking at the nub until it was swollen and sensitive.

His eyes tracked the motion, and Hermione grinned, all teeth, her other hand sliding down her stomach to join his between her legs. It was intimate, the way her fingers toyed with her nub as he fucked her on his fingers.

Riddle’s teeth caught on his bottom lip, a groan wheezing past his mouth when Hermione pinched her clit, eliciting a sharp sound from her throat.

“ _Everything_.”

Riddle was on her in seconds.

One minute he was staring at her through his lashes, his fingers deep in her cunt, and then the next, his hand was wound around her throat, the head of his cock bumping against her cunt. It was pure euphoria.

“As you wish.”

Hermione could have died, right then and there. His cock slid inside her to the hilt, stretching her past even his three fingers had.

A curse left her, teeth rattling in her mouth when he pulled out and then slammed right back inside, hitting her g-spot head-on. Her back arched, hands clawing at his shoulders to steady herself—to hold on for dear life—because he didn’t stop.

His hand wrapped around her neck, thumb tracing over her pulsing heartbeat, as he fucked her within an inch of her life, and still, there was no give. It was madness, but _god_ —

Her nails dug into his back, her legs wrapping around his waist to push him deeper, to follow the same violent rhythm he’d set.  

_Yes._

He kissed her again, and Hermione sank her teeth into his lip, feral and hungry for more. God, she needed _more_. She wanted to savage him.

“Take it. Take _all_ of me.”

Riddle’s grip on her neck tightened to the point of pain, squeezing until black crept along her vision, heightening the delicious glide of his prick in her cunt, of how his other hand scratched down her middle until the flesh stung and stopped at where their bodies joined.

When her second orgasm hit, Hermione let the fire in his eyes take her.

 

* * *

**Present.**

Hermione was drowning, fingers scratching at the hands holding her head just inches from the basin in front of her.

Startled eyes were watching her through it, undulating with the constant _drip, drip, drip_ of the liquid. She didn’t want to look, _to see_ , just what her face looked like after the attack. She didn’t dare look away, though. It was better to watch herself than to look elsewhere than to stare at the face hanging directly above the basin, its dead eyes and the bleeding hole of its throat enough to make her—

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

“ _Shhh_ , everything is going to be okay, darling.”

He pushed against her head, and Hermione choked back a sob, turning her head away when he brought her face nearer to the red pool below, the tip of her nose grazing its surface.

“Y-you’re mad. Absolutely _mad_.”

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Droplets fell into the rippling liquid below, her reflection distorting until the face staring back at her was no longer hers.

It was someone else. Someone new.

Her breath stuttered out of her in complete terror.

“There’s no need to be afraid—” he said, fingers carding through her hair gently. Reverently. “Everything will be fine.”

His words did not register. They were inconsequential. Utterly meaningless while in the face of a beast. When its eyes were _hers_ . When all of it, from the curls framing its face to the glowing red eyes, was  _her_.

“It’s all over now—”

Then, she was sinking into the red, red, _red_ of the beast on the other side. The _drip, drip, drip_ falling silent.

 

* * *

**Past.**

Hermione curled against him, a satisfied hum leaving her after he’d fucked her within an inch of her life. Her cunt was throbbing from the abuse, her throat completely dry after he’d choked her in the middle of her fourth orgasm.

It had been... _gods_. Hermione didn’t have the words to describe how wonderful that had been.

Hermione turned her head to her nightstand, and she grimaced.

It was 3:00 A.M.

She should have been sleeping, should have been letting the Sandman take her off to explore the world of imaginary beasts. Instead, Hermione curled closer into the warm body beside her, enjoying the way Riddle’s hand strayed away from caressing her back to curl over the back of her neck. It was a possessive touch, one that should have given her pause, but it didn't. It only made her tired,  _adored_.

“Am I dreaming? Hermione asked, exhaustion making the words slur in the darkness. It had come out of nowhere. This haze, this warmth, this cocoon, and Hermione fell slack against him, unable to resist its pull. "Did I make you up?”

Her vision blurred, the edges of her vision growing fuzzier at the edges.

“No, you didn’t."

Riddle turned to her, body dwarfing hers in the bed. Hermione's breath came to a halt.

"I assure you, Hermione, that I am _more_ than real.”

It was not their positions that made her breath stutter to a halt nor the way his fingers tightened on her throat briefly, nails digging into the skin. 

_No. That wasn’t—_

His eyes had gone red.


End file.
